WEEKLY Fun action-writing prompt and contest! I post the pictures, you write the conflict! |
Invalid Photo #1027111 Vs Invalid Photo #1027106 The room didn't smell like mould anymore, at least. Although, the smell of petrol wasn't much better. "Praying won't help you, Sister," the soldier hissed, his thick surface dwellers accent deforming the words. At least to Sister Amora Liente Biodonte's pristine ears. Sister Amora knelt on the prayer mat in front of her cot. Hands clasped before her in universal manner of divine homage. He splashed her again with the filthy liquid from the flame thrower built into his suit. "Arent you gonna tell me your last wishes, babe?" That dirty accent again, murdering the language of her people. "or are we gonna get straight into the self-immolation?" Sister Amora squeezed her legs together, centering herself. She was indeed praying. The Soldier waved his flamethrower in front of her again as if performing some corrupted benediction. Sister Amora still had not seen him. She had been praying when he entered the room, she was praying now. "do you always pray with your eyes shut, babe?" His face, inches from hers. She could not smell his breath, thank goodness, as his gas mask came between them. She wondered, wihout rancour, if he could smell his own breath stinking up inside that symbol of the apocalypse. She knew he could not smell the petrol she had already splashed around the room, on the wall hangings, on the door hangings, inside the chamber pot sitting near the door. "time to shine, lady," his voice crackled."time to rise and shine." The soldier stood back and thumbed the ignition of his flame thrower. Sister Amora stopped praying. -
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--- Michael Thundersbeard Artist, Writer, Father, Factory Worker. http://www.lifeandothertragedies.com (and husband too!) |
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